Downtown and Back

 by Brett Rutherford

I had the foolish idea to sample
the hotel dining rooms downtown.
Back in the Gilded Age, I assure
my friend, they were the best
restaurants in most cities.

You see, “prix fixe,”
as we pass the windows
right on Fifth Avenue, and see
a merry gathering of diners inside.
“We can afford this! Why not indulge?”

We are ushered in
by a dubious waiter. I find,
as I did when we crashed in
upon the Christies pre-auction,
that a fixed smile, a gaze
unblinking, and good shoes
get you admission most anywhere.

The tables are close, so we
are pressed to place
our tightly-wrapped purchase
upon the table between us.

“You needn’t have brought
anything,” the blue-haired lady
beside me observes. “The chef
has ample portions for all of us.”

Assuming this a wry jest, I laugh.
“Oh no,” I assure her. “We’ve just
been antique shopping. A fine
Ming bowl, in blue and white.”

Soup comes. A dark broth
(a hint of lamb), some shreds
of watercress, cilantro. Spoons
rattle, and threads of greens
tangle amid perfect dentures.

“No one knows what is next,”
the dowager confides to me.
“There is no printed menu, you see.
We wait for the chef to delight us.”
“Ah!” I say. “Then we have chosen well.”

“So you are not an initiate?”
the dowager’s young companion
poses. “Our first time here,” I say.
“Ah, we have a nouveau faim!”

Eyes turn to regard us. A chill
then seizes me as I grab
my companion’s arm and whisper.
“If you value your life, smile on.
Try not to blink. Eat anything
that is put before you.”

Outside the window, a frail
old lady in a worn cloth coat
on catching sight of us, presses
her greasy face against the glass.

Her eyes go black. She drools
against the pane and points
toward me until a man
raises and wags an admonishing finger.
I smile harder, show all the teeth
I can. I must have triggered her.

“The poor dear,” another diner says.
“She must be starving. She
hasn’t anyone. Why not
send her out a little doggy bag?
If left alone, she might eat
her poor little fingers off.”

Instead of sympathy, there comes
hard laughter. Heads turn away
from the spinster, who shambles
off and out of sight and mind.
My baffled companion leans in
to ask whatever is the matter?
“We have made terrible mistake,”
I confess. “We are dining amid
a coterie of country-club cannibals.”

Wide-eyed, we smile and smile.
I look at my watch, and say, “Oh dear,
we have so little time before the train!”
“No, no,” the dowager says, a bony hand
upon my forearm. “I just know

“we’re having an eyeball salad next.
What with the hospital down the block
he has the freshest stock in town."
“In salad?” I answer. “So far
we have only had then in soup.”

“The texture,” her companion explains.
“It’s all about the texture. You’ll learn
as time goes on. You’re new to this,
and we must make allowance.”
“Alas,” I say, “we lingered so long
in shopping and I lost track

“of the hour. You see, we have
this blue-and-white bowl,
a perfect match for a charger
our grandmother left behind —”
“And,” interjects my friend,
“we are having his family for dinner.”

Deftly I summon the waiter;
my debit card is taken, returned.
I sign. We stand, we smile, all teeth.
“I hope to make your acquaintance
again, some other Saturday.”

“We’re always here!” “Bon
appetit!” I call back
as we reach the door and out
into the bustling hotel lobby.
Snippets of talk assault us
as we make the slow walk
to the revolving door:

“I do not know what the problem is
with migrants. Washed well,
they are quite delicious.” — “Babies?
Goodness, no. You mustn’t disturb
the food chain by doing that!” “One
must be discreet, you see, until
we have a solid Republican Congress.”

We made it to the train, the cab,
and home. The blue-and-white bowl
is graced with fruit. Friends are over,
and so far no one
     is eating anyone.